


Survivor's Guilt

by KiranInBlue



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Depression, Drabble, Gen, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble featuring an Andrew that exists somewhere between the events of "Chosen" in Buffy and "Damage" in Angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivor's Guilt

After the Battle of Sunnydale, Andrew changed. Everyone noticed; he wasn’t the same immature and inappropriate kid that had harassed them through most of their struggle against the First. He had started seriously training and studying – he read through Giles’ texts with a feverish drive and helped supervise the new Slayers’ practice sessions. He himself physically trained until it felt as if bruises covered every inch of his body, but instead of whining about the pain and effort, he’d grunt something about X-Men training and push himself up to try again.

At first, Buffy had been somewhat surprised by the change, but Dawn reminded her that even before the final confrontation with the First, Andrew had started taking initiative to keep the group stocked with rations and medical supplies. He was becoming responsible; he was growing up.

As Andrew handed her the last Hot Pocket one evening, Buffy reflected on how much more useful he was, now that he was focusing properly. She told him as much. He smiled.

But she didn’t see everything.

She hadn’t seen him that afternoon. She hadn’t seen his physical training session with Giles. Giles had been instructing Andrew on a particular leg throw, but no matter how hard he had tried, Andrew just couldn’t seem to get the momentum right. Again and again – and again – he had failed. And as he sat on the mat after his fifty-sixth spectacular failure, wincing at an uncomfortable twist in his shin, Giles had sighed, and said: “Let’s call it a day, Andrew. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”

Andrew picked himself up and dusted off his pants. “Okay, Mr. Giles,” he’d said.

He had limped out of the makeshift gym, and returned to his room. Buffy didn’t see him collapse on his bed that afternoon; she never heard him cry.

Nor did she see Andrew the previous night – she didn’t see him jerk out of sleep, breathing hard as images of dead friends in a now-gone school danced in his vision. She didn’t see him curl up on himself, whimpering: “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry.”

No one saw that.

Andrew pulled himself out of bed the next morning, same as ever, and had sticky buns on the table and coffee brewing on the counter by the time the others awoke. He grinned at them, and wished them a “good morning” in a cheery voice.

And if no one paid attention to the bags under his eyes or the way his unstyled hair hung in shaggy curls around his face, that was okay.  Because, Andrew knew, he didn’t deserve it anyway. He had never been meant to survive; that was supposed to be Anya, Spike – even Jonathan. And yet, here _Andrew_ was, living on borrowed time. His every breath was a debt too steep for him to pay.

They needed more Watchers. And so that was what Andrew would become. If they needed him to give his life, that’s what he would do. The constant tightness in his chest, the fog in his mind – that didn’t matter. He would be useful. That’s the only thing that mattered. 


End file.
